


Purple Rose

by Bonbonbourbon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonbonbourbon/pseuds/Bonbonbourbon
Summary: Fareeha needs help in a case. Unfortunately the one person she needs to talk to is... difficult. Beautiful, but difficult. Guess every rose has its thorns.(Oneshot based on a fanart of Widowpharah in a noir setting)





	Purple Rose

Fareeha wiped at her chin sloppily with the back of her hand and wrinkled her nose at the puddle of dried drool on her papers. Goddamn it, again? It had been a bad habit of hers as of late to fall asleep at her desk. She took a glance at the clock and swore softly. It was two in the afternoon. It was only half past ten at night the last she checked. She would've believed the clock had broke and got stuck at two if it wasn't for the ache in her back from sleeping slumped over for too long proving that it hadn't.

She drummed her fingers on the table and rolled her neck. It’s been a while since she slept through the night. She must be more tired than she thought, she mused. But she’ll be damned if she wasted the half the day she had left and with a grunt she pushed out of her chair with the help of her hands. Her bones cracked as she rose and Fareeha grumbled. Seriously? She’s far too young to be feeling aches and pains at this level. A break maybe was what she needed. Maybe she should take today easy. Her mind went to thoughts of the small café three streets down and the delicious tarts they sold there. Yeah, maybe God was telling her that by lulling her into such a long sleep the night before.

Fareeha stared down glumly at her desk, at the pictures and papers that littered the surface. A long exhale expelled from her lungs.

Too bad this city simply wouldn’t let her.

Tucking her shirt back into her pants, Fareeha sauntered over to the window to half-perch herself on the sill. She pressed a hand to the glass and readjusted one of her loose suspender straps as she looked out. It wasn’t pouring anymore but the clouds were dark and gloomy, which was nothing unusual during this time of year to be honest. April was unkind to this city and its streets, filling the lives of the populace with thunder, billowing winds and perpetual overcast day in and day out. The best sort of weather for sordid crimes and this city was filled up plenty with folks with a propensity for that.

Sometimes Fareeha regretted moving here. Now that she was in she found that she couldn’t get out, not by some force or contract or higher being but simply herself and her damn morals. She found that she didn’t have the heart to leave the good people – what little of them there was here – to fend against evils on their own. It just wasn’t right. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.

Her gaze trailed a man with a bright red bouquet in his hands, a spot of color in this otherwise grey and gothic city. Fareeha smiled faintly. Her office is up four stories high, but she can see enough. She sees the way the man was patting at his coat pocket. She wished him the best with whoever he was gifting that lovely bouquet to and that they would say yes when he popped the question. It was truly a beautiful arrangement, a beautiful bouquet of bright red roses in half-bloom. It must have cost a fortune and she hoped that he had asked the florist to trim the thorns if he had spent as much as she thinks he did. She knew firsthand how painful a roses thorns were, and from how this case was progressing–

Fareeha sighed and slid off the sill.

–she had to find out once again. And with that, Fareeha grabbed her hat, put on her coat and walked out the door.

\-------------------

Fareeha shoved her hands in her pockets and sucked a breath between her teeth. The rain had stopped, but that certain rain chill had yet to disappear and the smell after heavy rains in the city was consistently terrible. It was like rain water pulled the stenches sealed in the tarmac up back into the air, and the end result was a foul smelling mix of piss and sewage and who knows what else – things that Fareeha would rather not think about if she could help it.

She sidestepped a drunken man as she continued on forward and handed a few coins to a beggar on the street without breaking her pace. South Docks Square, the most infamous part of town. It wasn’t the actual name of this area, but that was what everyone called it because it stretched from a street called Southside all the way to the docks. The worst place in the city – or the best, depending on who you asked. If you were up to no good and you were smart about it this section of the grid could make you into a king.

If you were stupid.

Well.

There wasn’t much that needed to be said.

Fareeha readjusted her hat as she stopped in front of the boutique hotel on the corner of St. Astaires. The place was decently kept, a few scratches here and there on the sides of the building but nothing more than the usual wear and tear. It stood strong and fortified amongst the blustering weather and was a difficult place to get into. Judging from the way the guards stood today, she probably wouldn’t be slipping through today. Their faces were set into hard lines that steeped further into a growl when they spotted her.

She grumbled and made her way to the other side of the street to sit down on the steps of an old apartment, ignoring the way the guards trailed her every move. Her eyes flitted casually up to the washed up sign of the hotel as she sat with her arms on her knees. The ‘Wainscott Hotel’ it read and she smiled wryly at the misnomer. The place could hardly be called a hotel, the few times she’d been in there she hadn’t seen a travelling soul check-in or linger in those halls. No tourist-looking folk anyways. In truth it was a front, a place for the biggest hotshots of the criminal empire to congregate. On the top level it had a sky bar filled with cocktails and wine, at the lobby level rested a grand restaurant, the plenty rooms adorning the stories of the building made for excellent locations for covert meetings, and an underground gambling house that only those who have sold their souls to the devil had entry too laid in the basement.

She was enraged that the cops did nothing to shut the place down the first few weeks she was here, then she saw the captain of the police department walk out and down the white steps, shaking hands and smiling with one of the Dons of this city. Now she’s just bitter.

Fareeha rubbed her hands together and breathed on them as she stared at those wide double doors. She wouldn’t be getting in today, but the woman she's waiting on was probably going to come out soon. The sun was sinking, the night was coming and the theatre had a new show premiering today.

She’ll come out. The only question was when.

In her boredom, Fareeha’s mind started to wander. She pulled out the ruddy, frayed photograph in her coat pocket and roamed her eyes over it once more. Mr. Graves was a portly man. A little overweight certainly, but the matters surrounding his death had nothing to do with any problems relating to health. A man doesn’t get eviscerated into parts from weight gain. People do not simply explode from a full belly - as much as they may joke that their stomachs were about to explode when they ate a particularly big meal.

Fareeha shifted and brought the picture closer. The last picture of Mr. Graves taken alive, happily grinning as he ate amongst friends in the pub five minutes away by bus – thirty if she walked. A normal picture if not for the fact that within it was one Ms. Guillard, standing and offering him a toast with a saccharine smile on her lips.

She looked… almost sweet in this photo.

Fareeha had heard before that once upon a time, a decade or so ago, Ms. Guillard had been a dancer who danced with other stars in the boardwalk theatres. A starlet that was graceful and beautiful and held a smile that could light up the world with its beauty and warmth.

She found that extremely hard to believe from her own exchanges with the woman thus far.

Her head lifted as a commotion began. She saw men flocking to form a line at the entrance of the hotel, yelling at each other to prepare and straightened from her slouch as a black sedan with a familiar family crest rolled up. The double doors of the Wainscott Hotel opened and out came the woman who had been dominating the better part of her thoughts. Fareeha shoved the picture back into her pocket and stood up.

“Ms. Guillard!” She shouted and started to walk across the street, pace undeterred by the guards reaching for the guns they definitely had on them. “I need to speak with you.”

Ms. Guillard paused, inches away from the car. She stared up at her with glinting gold eyes and a smirk painted on her purple lips.

“Private Investigator _Amari_.” She breathed out as she lifted a hand to stop her guards from taking further action. Like well-trained dogs they lowered their guards and holstered their weapons once more. “What a nice surprise.” She crooned then turned back to her cronies with a sharp gaze. “Leave us.”

Immediately they gave a wide berth, nonetheless glaring at her from where they now stood with their backs on the wall, at the ready to draw their weapons once more if she tried anything funny. Their loyalty confused Fareeha. The woman before her wasn’t known to be kind to her personnel.

“Ms. Guillard.” She repeated. “I-”

“Please, call me Amelie.” She said airily as she stepped into her space. The scent of warm amber and fresh Damascus roses filled her nose. The break from the usual city smell would be welcomed if it wasn’t for the source of it. “We’ve met enough times by now, practically old friends I’d say. How’s your mother doing?”

Fareeha’s jaw tightened. She balled her fists in her pockets, digging her fingernails into her palms as she strived to keep control. Ms. Guillard’s smile widened condescendingly, like she was somehow privy to her hidden struggle.

“Ms. Guillard.” She said darkly in an even tone that bordered on guttural, doing her best to not show that the woman had gotten under her skin. “You were at Roark’s Tavern last week. Do you remember a Mr. Graves? What about a Ms. Moreau? A Mr. Laurent? Or the unidentified man who died between Conifer Street and Diggs Alley?”

Ms. Guillard only hummed, that irritating smile staying on her lips as she looked her up and down. She clicked her tongue and shook her head as she stared down at her shoes, like she had found something particularly disheartening. Ms. Guillard looked up at her with feigned sorrow.

“Amari, you should take better care of yourself. Those pebble-grain shoes need to be cleaned soon and do try to keep them out of puddles. You went through all the trouble to tie a Berlutti knot after all, the least you could do is keep them dry.” Her hands raised up and played with her tie, tightening it around her neck. “And this tie of yours is crooked. You come here to see me looking like this?”

Fareeha grabbed her hand, ripping it off her. “I didn’t come here to _impress_ you.” She growled, teeth gnashing. “I came because I want answers as to why in every last living photo of all these victims _you_ are in them.”

Ms. Guillard didn’t even bat an eye as she removed her hand from her grasp. She tutted again.

“Well you could’ve fooled me. You’re wearing French cuffs and I can smell cologne on you. A crisp cedarwood marine. My favorite.” She remarked coyly before wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Beneath the horrid smell of tobacco that gunslinger partner of yours smokes, anyways.”

“I do not have time for games, Ms. Guillard." She took a step closer and loomed over her. "What. Do. You. Know.”

Ms. Guillard’s smile dropped. She stared at her, gold and glinting eyes unblinking. Fareeha stared back, resisting the urge to fidget as the woman silently picked her apart.

“Interesting." Ms. Guillard cocked her head thoughtfully. "You do not think it was me.”

Fareeha rolled her shoulders and her lips thinned at the continuing evasion of her questions.

“No, I do not.” She admitted, however. It wasn’t that she didn’t think Ms. Guillard capable of murder or torturous acts. It was that the way these people died, it didn’t seem to be the sort of handiwork that she would do. Too messy with blood and bones everywhere. “Not the murder at least.”

“Oh?” Ms. Guillard chuckled and Fareeha’s eyes narrowed, not understanding what part of the situation was funny. People were dead. “You are as honest as ever. Most wouldn’t reveal their small doubts of what hand someone might play when they’re trying to get answers from them.” She grinned. “I do not hate it. I will help.”

She snapped her fingers and one of her guards came forward with a suitcase. He opened it deftly, as per the instructions that flowed through Ms. Guillard’s mouth in smooth French. He held up the opened suitcase to Ms. Guillard wide, submissively keeping his head down as she took her time, hemming and hawing before settling on picking up a single purple rose that laid within. A tasteful boutonniere. Fareeha lifted a brow as she walked back to her, the flower in her grips.

“What is-”

“Stop talking or I will leave right now.”

Fareeha gritted her teeth but said nothing more, withholding the urge to narrow her eyes as Ms. Guillard chuckled condescendingly in victory. She stayed still as Ms. Guillard’s fingers started to play with her left lapel, smoothing the fabric with perfectly manicured nails.

“There is a meeting that will take place in two nights sometime after nine. It will take place down by the docks close to the junkyard.” Ms. Guillard began to fit the boutonniere onto her lapel. “It is a small place, the project with the blue rooftop. Go to the basement wearing this flower and you will get in.”

Fareeha flinched as the pin of the flower pricked her. Glinting gold eyes flit up and a smoky chuckle left painted lips, sliding between sharp teeth. Fareeha’s nostrils flared and her jaw grew tight. Something told her that wasn't an accident.

“And then?”

“And the rest you have to figure out yourself, chaton.” She ended playfully as she’s pressing on her lapel, gentle and ghosting touches to neaten the flower and align it perfectly. When she was satisfied she gave her another two pats. “There we go. All done. It can be something for you to remember me by after.”

“What makes you think I’m not going to rip this flower right off once this case is all finished and done?" Fareeha raised a brow as she raised her voice challengingly. “Chuck it straight in a bin where it's meant to be?”

Ms. Guillard only smiled. A taunting one, like she knew something Fareeha didn’t.

“…Keep it in a small mug with two inches of clean water. It will last longer that way.” She said as she started to turn back to head into her car, door already opened by one of her many minions. "Adieu, cherie."

Fareeha grumbled and was ready to leave having received what she came for, but she saw the truck ripping down the street and the splashes coming from each puddle it ran down with its giant wheels and she reacted. She reached out and pulled Ms. Guillard by her coat, into her arms and swiveled to shield her from an oncoming splash with her own body. When she felt Ms. Guillard pull away from her arms, Fareeha realized what she had instinctively done and a warm flush went through her.

Laughter brought her out of her embarrassment and straight into confusion. She blinked, eyes wide and filled with wonder as Ms. Guillard reached out to cup at her cheek, fingers running down gently down them and tracing her tattoo with an unprecedented amount of care. The smile on her face was coy, and breathlessly beautiful.

“Thank you, chaton. How kind of you, but you do realize I'm wearing a trenchcoat as well right?”

The words were spoken softly, laughingly, and yet not patronizingly. Fareeha stood paralyzed, entranced by the gentle mirth in normally cold gold eyes, the sweetness in a usually cruel voice, and could only watch as Ms. Guillard leaned in and gave her a tender kiss on the cheek; her cold lips felt soft and supple to the touch and Fareeha’s face burned against her will from the simple act. Ms. Guillard's smile then changed into something more align to her usual arrogant flare at seeing her visible reaction, but still with that small touch of sweetness that kept Fareeha helpless from its sight. 

Then, Ms. Guillard removed herself from her grasp and sauntered into her car. Fareeha watched as the sedan pulled away, cheek still tingling from the sudden kiss. And when the car turned a corner and vanished out of sight Fareeha finally snapped out of her reverie, regained control of her feet and briskly walked away, resolute to not think of what had just transpired.

\-------------------

Fareeha grumbled as she slipped out of her shoes and hung her coat on the hangar. She paused as she stared at the boutonniere, contemplating whether she should leave it there or keep it safe in a box first. Caution won out in the end and she decided to bring it with her to her study desk. When she pricked herself in the process of removing it from her lapel, Fareeha cursed the fact that the thing has succeeded in hurting her twice in one day.

“Y’know darling, every rose has its thorns.”

She turned to glare at Jesse and his most unwelcomed comments. She didn’t expect his grinning visage to turn grim suddenly at the sight of her face. Her brows furrowed. She turned to the mirror hanging on the wall, wondering what was on her face that changed his mood so. And then she saw it. A swell of embarrassment rose in her along with a spot of exhaustion knowing the spiel that would come, for there, on her cheek, was a clear imprint of purple lipstick.

“Fareeha, I know Ms. Guillard is beautiful and I myself haven’t made the best choices sometimes when it comes to the people I pursue, but as the saying goes: The more beautiful the rose, the sharper the thorns.”

“It’s not like that.” She grumbled testily, face warming again as she recalled the kiss. “I just needed help.”

“And you got a kiss and a flower from her for your troubles? You going to pick her up for a gala next? With a matching corsage for her at the ready?”

Her lips thinned. 

“No, I don’t. And this flower is my ticket to get to an event that will bring us one step closer to solving this damn crime, okay?” Jesse’s lips begin to fly open, irate look still on his face and it made Fareeha shake her head and walk faster to her study room, not in the mood for whatever else he had in store for her. How dare he assume she went to Southside for a little bit of fun. He knew her better than that. “I’ll talk to you later Jesse. I have a _job_ to do.”

She slammed the door and sunk into her rolling chair. When minutes passed and no telltale knock came to her door, Fareeha sighed a breath of relief that Jesse had retired from going at her with an unnecessary argument. Fareeha turned the boutonniere in her hands. She couldn’t blame him too much for his vitriol. There was a man who loved Ms. Guillard apparently, some friend of Mccree’s named Gerard Lacroix.

He wasn’t around anymore.

The main rumor was Ms. Guillard was at fault, marrying the man and then ruining him in the span of a year because something had changed her forevermore at some point during their marriage. Fareeha breathed in deeply. That wasn’t a story she fully believed. They say she was a vixen that manipulated a young blood’s heart without remorse after ‘the incident’, but Fareeha has seen her a couple times on the many balconies of the Wainscott with a melancholic look she has only seen in the faces of people who have loved and lost.

She brought the flower closer to her face. The rose was macabre, a dark purple that appeared almost sickly. A rose with a color that shouldn’t exist and didn’t, after pushing a few petals out the way Fareeha could see slivers and specks of the true original red it was, before it was dyed this poisonous artificial purple. The rose still smelled like a rose though and the scent of it made her mind go back to Ms. Guillard.

They said that she used to be a sweet woman with a bright smile. Fareeha never believed it until now. Her hands went up to her cheeks. Her caresses had been loving and gentle and the laughter in her eyes as she smiled appreciatively at Fareeha was something she unerringly believed to be genuine. Nobody was that good of an actor. Nobody.

Ms. Guillard was a beautiful woman. Physical perfection some might say and plenty have vied for her attention from that alone. Fareeha never understood her appeal, her personality marring what beauty she had. Until just a few hours ago.

In that moment, Fareeha thought her beautiful. She understood what everyone else saw and Fareeha grumbled at her own weakness. She hated that right now if she closed her eyes the sight of Amelie Guillard smiling sweetly at her was what she saw and that the image alone made her cheeks unbearably warm and her heart to thud just a little bit faster. Fareeha sighed, looked out the window and wished that the rain would come once more and drown everything out again, these strange feelings of hers most of all.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a oneshot inspired by this good art: [Click here](http://theskies-areclear.tumblr.com/post/171304546587/if-you-have-the-time-raptoramaker-pls)
> 
> If you have a tumblr, please reblog their art cuz its truly wonderful.


End file.
